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My heart tumbles as the recently familiar, deep timbre of his voice floats my way, and his gaze lands on me.
Magnus
CHAPTER 4
When I spot the woman with the curly brown hair and legs for days a few long strides away, something flares inside of me. Her green eyes, which seem impossible, flash before she turns around, sending the hem of her skirt swirling around her legs.
Her legs. She’s tall. They’re long.
She’s athletically fit like she’s active, yet every curve is feminine.
Surrounded by a couple of other women and their dates, they take turns glancing my way as if we’re at a high school dance. After watching Rambo at a relatively young age and reading every book I could get my hands on about military operators, I knew the course for my future. Started as a jet pilot, graduated to fighter pilot. But that didn’t stop me from a relatively normal schooling experience, complete with a spot on the football team and the homecoming court. While I had a couple of girlfriends during those years, my head was elsewhere.
I dated in the years since and there was the waxy Wanda blip. But it never felt like this. My instincts make me want to move closer to her, but my sensibilities wave a red warning flag because this sensation inside is different. New. Strange.
As if moving involuntarily, which is odd because I am very deliberate from my years of training, I take a few paces toward her but stagger. Or at least it feels that way. It’s not from the TBI, I know those sensations all too well and thankfully, seem to have made a full recovery.
However, it’s as if by closing the space between us I’m making a choice—one that will change the rest of my life.
Either that or I’m getting tipsy by osmosis because Ross has been drinking all day—since last night at the bachelor party if I’m keeping track. If I had my way, we’d have taken a deep woods excursion, gotten into the wild, hiked, and cooked around a campfire.
She shifts deeper into the circle of women surrounding her before they thrust her my way as if pulling the ejection lever in an old F-14—though my preferred wings are an F-18.
Something about her hesitancy amuses me.
As if giving up on avoiding whatever dare her friends put her up to, she squares her shoulders, lengthens her spine, and meets me halfway. Presenting her hand to shake, she says, “Hello, I’m Lally. You’re the best man.”
Oh, so not a dare. We’re already acquainted. What a coincidence...and not at all what I expected. More. Much more.
“Magnus,” I manage to say, but that’s it. The only times I’ve been rendered speechless were when I took an earful of explosives or gunfire without protection. Lally’s touch swirls letters, spirals punctuation, and twists my ability to make coherent sounds into the air like a sandstorm.
This is Lally? This gorgeous woman with legs for days and the body and grace of a dancer, but not at all delicate, is the same person with terrible text abilities?
I blurt, “You’re the maid of honor?”
“I do. I mean, I am. Yes.” She presses her lips together and squeezes her eyes shut for half a second.
“You’re tall, especially in those high heels, which works well for us having to walk down the aisle together,” I say, belatedly realizing how that sounds. “What I mean is because I’m tall too. I was afraid Romy’s best friend would be more her stature. You’re the opposite.”
“Ex-best friend,” she mutters.
My eyebrow arcs.
Then, lifting her foot and gazing back at her choice of footwear, she says, “Typically, I’m more of a tennis shoes kind of person. Flip-flops too. I don’t usually wear heels is what I mean. I feel like a baby giraffe in these things.”
If I were the kind of guy with an easy smile like Ryan, I’d be beaming. There is something so endearing about the comment, but the red warning flag inside hoists itself a little higher to be sure I see it breezing in the wind.
“When I was younger, I didn’t like being tall, but I embrace it now. I don’t typically feel like a giraffe.” Clutching a purse, she clears her throat as if she’s self-conscious here at this party.
“You’re the perfect height.”
She bounces slightly. “Helps me reach the top shelf without help.”
“So, you’re single?”
And that, folks, is the single most outrageous thing that has ever come out of my mouth. Not because I’m not curious about her answer, but because I’ve never come close to asking a woman that. Not my style. My command of English malfunctions, the barbarian has passed the gate! It pounds its chest and grunts,Ooga Booga!
She blinks slowly at me as if we haven’t been speaking the same language this whole time. “Obviously.”
